


hate me, hate me, tell me how you hate me

by butraura



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Bellarke, David Miller headcanon, Episode: s01e08 Day Trip, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Miller mention, No one knows Bellamy shot Jaha, Not even Raven, POV Bellamy Blake, Porn With Plot, Smut, The 100 (TV) Season 1, bellamy x clarke, episode AU, not important to the story but important to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butraura/pseuds/butraura
Summary: 1x08: Day Trip AU. Bellamy heads out with Clarke after she asks him to go with her and before they find the bunker they start fighting and hate-sex ensues.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Finn Collins/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 126





	hate me, hate me, tell me how you hate me

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance if this is terrible because I’m never written smut in my entire life and yet here we are!

Everything Bellamy had ever done his entire life was for the good of his mother and his sister. Everything he’d ever thought or felt had more to do with them than anything else. He was a good kid, but as he grew up the secrets got more elaborate and the stakes got higher and somewhere along the way, he’d become a “bad” kid, and then he made it to the ground to protect his sister, and it was easier to be the bad guy. It was easier to look up at the ship that threw them out with hatred and resentment than it was to be the good guy people needed him to be. Need him to be.  
It’s easy hating everyone because he hates himself.  
Bellamy wanted to be a teacher when he grew up. More specifically, an ancient history teacher, helping kids discover the wonders and mysteries of the Earth below them from centuries before the Apocalypse. Something more idyllic and far away, so they don’t wonder about what they missed out on. Times before the concept of cellphones and land vehicles and free will. If he were to teach them about the ancient Greeks, they’d fret less about the lives they could have lived on the ground in the early 21st century, where they could have sleepovers and parties and public school and… And siblings.  
Bellamy thinks too often about the life he and Octavia could have had on this beautiful planet if they’d been born 120 years ago. He wonders if Aurora would have been in the crowd cheering as he’d graduate summa cum laude from Harvard or Princeton or Yale. If she’d have made it to 45 years old and gotten to take Octavia to her first day of kindergarten with a camera and a photo album full of memories. If she’d have had a normal job doing regular things instead of a part-time seamstress, full time… well anyway, a normal job. Like a waitress or a librarian or something else mundane. Something that brought her home for dinner and a chance to fall in love with a man that might stay.  
He wonders if she’d have been happy. But such is the world he was born unto, and his mother is dead, and his sister was imprisoned simply for existing and he’s trying to lead a group of teenagers that both don’t want his leadership and cling to it like a lifeline. And everything he’d ever done was for the good of Octavia or his mother, and now he’s doing it for himself. And most people stay out of his way.  
But then there’s Clarke, a hard-headed princess with no qualms about doing the right thing, easier thing be damned, and she’s defying his orders and running with her own group and is an inconvenience in the same way rat poison would inconvenience a rat. She’s the most infuriating woman he’s ever met, but under the stars and the moon and the endless trees, who wouldn’t fall a little bit in love with her smile and her eyes and her laugh and her ferocity.  
There’s this girl who doesn’t look at him with fear - nor gratitude - for the horrific things he’s done, and she doesn’t look at him like she wants him dead in the way she should, and she doesn’t let him suffocate under his own thoughts because she’s too busy pushing buttons and testing the limits of the boundaries between them.  
She wants him to go with her to some bunker half a day away. And he agrees, because Octavia hates him and she doesn’t need him, and he knows that Clarke would be a more effective leader than he would. He goes because he knows it’s time to leave the dropship behind and see if he can make it on his own before the rest of the Ark comes down and kills him on site for his crimes against the Council - against the Chancellor himself.  
He packs enough rations for a least a few days and explains it away to Clarke like it’s precautionary to an unpredictable trip - but the truth is, he doesn’t know what lies ahead of him in the radiation-soaked forests and doesn’t know how much he’s going to be able to rely on the natural plants and berries he could find.  
He doesn’t say goodbye to Octavia because she hates him, but he sends a silent prayer to his mother to watch out for her, and hopes Clarke will be kind enough to relay the message when it’s time.  
He walks a few yards behind her for what seems like hours - she’s not the chatty type, apparently. He considers saying something kind, or smart, or literally anything worth starting a conversation over. But it’s hot outside, the sweat beads on his face, he’s pissed off - and he’s self destructive. So what he says first isn’t helpful.  
“Sucks that Finn can’t keep it in his pants,” he tuts, face to the ground but a cold smirk on his lips.  
She pauses and turns to him, venom in her tone. “Mind your business, Bellamy.”  
It’s so easy, he realizes. It’s like breathing. He continues, “you’ve made it the whole camp’s business, Princess. May as well talk about it.”  
“Don’t call me Princess. I don’t want to talk about it.”  
He looks around at the forest enveloping them and gets braver. “I get it,” he shrugs. “Raven’s hot. Who wouldn’t be into that? And she’s no princess, either, which is a selling point.”  
“Shut up,” she snaps. “You know nothing about me, so just shut the fuck up.”  
“I know you’re the Golden Child on the Ark,” he offers. “I know you probably had everything you ever wanted since you were a damn infant.”  
She looks at him, bewildered, coming in to step with him. “You realize I was on the same ship as you, yes? I lived on the Ark just like everyone else. My life wasn’t perfect.”  
“Oh, boohoo,” he rolls his eyes. “Princess didn’t get diamonds for her sweet 16 and suddenly it’s worth floating someone over.” He almost laughs at himself. Almost.  
“What is wrong with you? I was in SkyBox for crimes against the Council, Bellamy. Would a princess do that?”  
“What’d you do, curtsy the Chancellor but not Kane? Not say thank you when they served you your luxury dinners?”  
She sighs bitterly. “Whatever. I shouldn’t have brought you with me. You’re such a jackass.”  
They’re quiet for a few minutes more, and the smoke has nearly dissipated from Clarke’s ears. Bellamy reignites it. “No wonder Finn chose her.”  
He barely gets the words out before Clarke turns around and shoves him as hard as she can, sending him stumbling clumsily into a tree, and she takes the seconds he needs to regain his balance as a reprieve and jogs ahead, creating more distance between them.  
It’s better this way, he decides, if she hates him, too. He can’t risk anyone missing him when he’s gone - not that there was a chance of that, he thinks. No one on the planet - literally - hates him more than her. But just to be sure, he presses his luck. “I bet Finn’s relieved he doesn’t have to pretend to give a damn about you anymore,” he yells ahead, gaining no reaction. “Probably didn’t want to risk the Council finding out when they came down and executed him for daring to kiss the Princess when he’s the help.” She cocks her head, but keeps on walking. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about you, Princess. Don’t want people thinking you’re an easy lay.”  
She turns around lunges at him, and he dodges it gracefully. She puts all her weight behind a swing but, as he soon realizes, she has no ability to control where it goes, and she throws her entire self at him. He catches her with ease, turning her so her back’s against his chest and his arms are around her. “Careful, Clarke,” he growls. “I don’t care about what the Council would think.” She elbows him harshly and a hiss escapes his lips, but he keeps a grip.  
“If you don’t shut the hell up,” she warns, her cheeks aflame with fury. She moves to twist out of his grasp but between her aimless efforts to wriggle out and the ease in which he keeps her close, she finds her chest pressed precariously against his, both of them breathing heavily. His jaw hardens as he looks deep in her impossibly blue eyes, deeper than the Earth’s oceans and vaster than the sky above. He takes in each speck of her irises, noting how close they come to mimicking stained glass, and he suddenly feels like they could swallow him whole. Her eyes are inviting, demanding. He feels himself come undone with her hands wrapped around his arms for stability.  
“Princess,” he sneers, losing whatever battle they were fighting.  
“Shut up,” she levels, looking between his gaze and his lips and his hands on her forearms.  
Bellamy’s favourite things about Earth have changed nearly every day since the day they landed, from the fresh air that settles in the morning, to the beautiful but stark differences between the dusks and dawns of the day, to the rhythmic sounds of running water crashing against the bedrock. But right now, in this moment, his most favourite thing about Earth is the way Clarke looks under the scarce light peeking in between tree branches and the way she clings to him like a vice.  
He doesn’t expect her to kiss him.  
Her hands move from his arms and wrap around his neck in a swift motion, and before he can contest her pulling away, she pulls him closer, bringing the distance between their lips to zero. His arms instinctively curve around the small of her back to pull her hips to his and her tongue finds a way to his like magnets. He almost finds the will to break away until he hears - and feels - her moan against his lips, and he dissolves between her fingers. She makes the executive decision to stop. He nearly whimpers when she does. She looks up at him and he notices that the anger hasn’t been washed away, and if anything, she seems pissed off. But she considers him a moment, and he hasn’t nearly enough time to prepare for the next time she pulls him to her. Her hands cup the side of his face and he makes quick work of finding her waist to ground him. She kisses him with such aggression that he’s forced to step backwards to keep them standing, and she continues until she has him pinned against a tree.  
Bellamy only notices when the tree bark starts to dig into his pants slightly but he can’t process thought beyond the infuriating, beautiful - infuriatingly beautiful - woman before him.  
Clarke kisses him like she’s starving. Like she’d been in famine for years and he’s the only source of nutrients she needs to keep going. He wonders why Finn would have let this go. He feels the electricity between him and the vengeful blonde accelerate throughout his body, fraying his nerves and causing parts of him to stand at attention. He doesn’t think twice about gently pushing her head back so he can draw a road map with his lips from her chin to her collarbone, and her back arches into him while she lets him take her weight.  
She jumps when his hand slides up her shirt, but she doesn’t pull away. He takes the chance to learn every detail of her skin and every curve of her body, trailing slowly up past her bra and to the top of her chest. He uses his fingers to gently pull the fabric of her shirt and bra off her shoulder and replaces it with his lips as he kisses every inch of exposed skin, like a promise. Her fingers tangle in his hair and she trembles very slightly as his tongue laps the skin on her neck, dancing eagerly across the flesh. “I hate you,” she whispers above his head into the tree.  
“Good,” he answers, using his other hand to cup her ass generously. “I hate you, too.” He stands up straight again to taste her lips once more, taking a fistful of her hair.  
“You’re such a dick,” she tries again, but instead breathes life into him, and he gets the idea to pull her shirt off. She lets him. It’s discarded on the ground easily and he takes no more than a second to bask in the divine beauty before him. She grabs his shoulders as if reading his mind, and he crouches just enough to hook one hand under her thigh. With the other hand wrapped around her waist, Bellamy lifts Clarke off the ground and turns to press her against the tree this time, and now she’s at eye level, her chest entirely pressed against his.  
“God, you’re annoying, Princess,” he breathes gruffly into her collarbone once more. “Just shut up,” he demands.  
She wraps her legs around his hips in response, and not even gravity could bring her back to Earth right now. “Make me,” she tells him, both an instruction and a proposition. Bellamy thanks whatever deity listening that Clarke’s bra is a front-clasp, and it’s almost too easy to undo. When she spills out of the fabric he has to take a moment to appreciate the situation they’ve found themselves in and then makes quick work at pressing his lips to each breast, working in circles inward to the nipples. And she’s moaning. Fully, contentedly, loudly moaning, and it’s driving him absolutely nuts.   
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he tells her earnestly, suddenly more vulnerable than he’d ever planned on being with her. She ignores him and feverishly tries to pull his shirt over his head, earning disapproving groans as it doesn’t work. He chuckles and pulls it over for her, dropping it next to hers in the grassy dirt. “Okay,” he says simply.  
She rests her hands on his chest for a second, taking it in then pulls his shoulders close to feel it pressed against her breasts, and it feels as natural as breathing. He uses a fistful of her hair to guide her neck to the side, leaving space for him to nibble and explore with his tongue. He feels her hands graze his Adonis belt and he twitches helplessly against her soft fingers. He’s too busy with his own points of interest to notice that she’s undone his belt until his jeans start to slide ever-so-slightly down his hips. He chuckles into her skin and pulls away just a touch, preventing his pants from being lost to his ankles. She unwraps her legs and brushes the tips of her toes to the ground, signaling him to let her go, and he does begrudgingly. She stands peering up at him under heavy lashes, much too perfect to be reasonable, and he licks his lips. Bellamy takes her hands in his, never once breaking the gaze between them, and slowly raises their arms over her head, and with one of his hands, pins both of hers against the tree. With his other hand, he wraps it around her throat ever so delicately, using the leverage to kiss just about anywhere he can reach, and her eyes flutter close as she takes in the experience he’s giving her. “God,” she moans.  
His grip tightens infinitesimally but she chuckles and it drives him nuts. He’d never have pegged her for the type to be into this, but he’s not one to waste an opportunity - not anymore.  
Bellamy paints kisses over every inch of skin he had covered in his hands and moves down her collarbone once more, breathing in every detail of Clarke as if he might forget as soon as he lets go. He feels her muscles react reflexively against his grip above them, but not enough to indicate she wants to be let go. He teases her by working his way down to her breast, working her up, and then breaking away suddenly when he’s so close to contact with her hardened nipples and moving directly back to her lips, where he crashes into her like waves. This time he can’t help but graze her bottom lip with his teeth, and her tongue laps his, and he’s laughing into her, and gravity escapes them.  
Her pants are much too in the way, but he doesn’t suppose she’s ready to go that far, so he makes do with the exposed parts he can touch and lets his hold on her wrists loosen, and she drops them to the top of shoulders before he turns her around, her stomach pressing to the tree trunk, and takes in the scratches along her back from the bark. He’s surprised at first, but softly kisses each one as if it could heal them instantly. He must press over a dozen kisses to her upper back before focusing on the nape of her neck and taking in the intoxicating aroma of her hair as the breeze blows through it whimsically. Clarke’s hands brace herself against the tree while he runs his along her body, even daring to dip one in front of her between her thighs, earning a shudder in earnest.  
“Bellamy,” she murmurs, her voice nearly disappearing into the forest as she trembles.  
“Mm?” he replies absently. His fingers dance playfully against the fabric between him and her, and she involuntarily presses against them.  
“I…” She doesn’t finish. Speaking, that is.  
“Yeah?” he prompts her as he lets a sly grin imprint into her shoulder.  
She just sighs, feeling all of him. The forest is dead silent, and Bellamy’s sure that if anyone had come after them, they’d hear her moans a mile away. It turns him on in ways he couldn’t admit out loud.  
The trees rustle in the breeze and in this moment he’s never been more thankful to be on the ground. The recycled air of the Ark could never fill his lungs with the hope and promise the oxygen on Earth offers, and the warmth of the sun rays on his skin is incomparable to any manufactured experience he had in space. In this moment, Bellamy knows that death on the ground would be far more fulfilling than dying among the stars.  
He gets lost in his head while he nibbles at her ear, and doesn’t think twice about letting his hand slip inside the waist of her pants. When his finger teases her, he’s met with a puddle of gratitude. “Oh, god,” she whimpers suddenly, stiffening but never making an effort to leave. He lets his other hand snake around to her front and cup her breast, toying her nipple carefully but precisely. He knows she can feel him harden against her ass and he lets her revel in the knowledge that she can get him this hot and bothered. He slides his finger in just enough to feel every degree of heat inside her flood to the fingertip, and he starts to suck gently on the skin below her ear, lapping at it like it’s his reason for existing. His finger traces circles along her clit rhythmically and he knows he’s shaken her resolve when her hips begin to move with him.  
“That’s it,” he encourages her in her ear. “C’mon, Princess.”  
She gasps as he takes his finger form inside her. He lets go of her body and turns her back around to face him, sweat beading on her face and a few strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. He braces himself with one hand above her as he leans down to kiss her again, never growing tired of her soft lips beneath his. She stands there for a moment, reciprocating, before she opts to wrap her arms around his neck again, but he stops her. He thinks he sees disappointment in her eyes, but it’s futile. He simply starts to brush his lips down her body. Starting with the familiar territory of her collarbone and chest, he goes even lower, to her belly button, his hands on her hips to keep her still, and when his nose hits the seam of her pants, he doesn’t stop to ask permission. He hooks his thumbs into the fabric and pulls them lower with ease, but doesn’t let them drop. He uses them to guide his lips, first paying special attention to the way goosebumps spread across her body when he licks her hipbone and the way she instinctively gives back by running her fingers through his hair. He moves her underwear down as though it isn’t there and just a means to an end he marvels at the sight of her flesh before him.  
He’s a bookworm, and if given the chance, could write prose about her to put Charles Dickens to shame, but he’s too distracted by her ethereal beauty to try, and he hooks a hand around her to brace her. He feels the warmth emanating from her as he tactfully skips leaving his mark there, and he swears she hears her hiss when she realizes what he does - or rather, doesn’t - do. She soon moves on as his tongue relishes the most physically attainable parts of her inner thighs, also warm and inviting. His tongue moves painfully slowly around her, wanting to see her come undone without flicking the switch, but her will is strong.  
“Bellamy,” she begs as her grip in his hair tightens and he feels his own stiffness twitch at the aggression.  
“Mm?” he responds sending a soft vibration into her thigh, nearly inches from the main course. She says nothing but her breathing intensifies. “Beg me, Princess.”  
“No,” she tells him with great difficulty. She shakes her head, refusing to give in.  
“You need me, Clarke,” he murmurs, making his point by letting his nose tread almost imperceptibly over her slit.  
“I don’t need you,” she tells him defiantly. “I don’t need anyone.”  
“I suppose I could just…” he pulls himself away hesitantly, teasing, and can see her frown. He grins and leans forward once more, feeling a trillion jolts of electricity when his tongue touches her flesh and he can feel the muscles in her pelvis contract as she reacts to him.  
She says nothing but her body language says everything, and his tongue artfully curves inside her with ease, his taste buds roaring to life and his hunger rumbling in his stomach.  
The previously muted moans from Clarke’s lips may as well get plugged into a surround sound speaker as they echo off the trees of the forests and fill his ears like music.  
He only goes for a taste at first. He doesn’t want to dive in the deep end before enjoying the trek from shore and wading currents. But she makes him want to venture to Mariana’s Trench if the movie is half as sweet as the trailer. He keeps one hand on her leg as he swiftly drops her clothes to her ankles and guides them out from beneath her. When he brings her feet back to solid ground, her feet are significantly more spread apart than before, allowing him more access to parts of Clarke he never before had dreamed of discovering.  
He looks up at her as she towers over him and he can see the static in her head as he numbs her everything. His mischievous eyes and her ravenous ones are locked and his brown curls fall over his face, helping hide the flush from his cheeks as he takes her in. Without breaking eye contact, he slips two fingers inside her as he pinches her clit, kneading it gently. He wins when she cracks first, her head lulling back and her eyes becoming well acquainted with the back of her skull as she enjoys the high. He used his two fingers to spread her lips enough to make room for his eager tongue, and he tastes her inch closer to ecstasy.  
“C’mon, Princess,” he instructs between laps. “Come for me.”  
The grip on his hair becomes almost painful from the rigidity. “No,” she denies him. “I don’t.” A deep breath. “I don’t. Not yet,” she manages.  
“Why can’t you take orders anymore, Clarke?” he muses, his voice sultry and threatening in the sexiest way. “Be a good girl for me, Princess.”  
She shakes her head once more and he wonders if her defiance to let go is causing her literal pain from the way she’s hyperventilating. “I want you.”  
“I’m here,” he assures her, sucking her clit jaggedly. “I’m right here.”  
“No,” she winces as he hits the right spot. “I want you inside me.”  
The sound it makes when he lets go of her is nothing short of a _pop_ , but he stands quickly and raises her eyebrows, making sure this is what she wants. She answers him by kissing him fiercely, and the knowledge of her tasting herself on his lips does wonder for the erection in his jeans. She wastes no time in forcing the already-loose pants down his legs and doesn’t even take a second to see the rigidity of his body beneath the briefs. She’s desperately pulling those down too to just above his knees, and is taking his cock in her hands. He can tell from the way she holds it that she expected it to be hard already, and it is, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t take a moment to stroke it regardless. Her lips open in awe and he tries not to be too proud of that and he goes back to kissing her, this time him being the one moaning and falling apart in her hands.  
“Fuck, Bellamy,” she whispers into his lips.  
“Clarke,” he chokes in response, willing himself to last long enough for her.  
She pulls him closer to her, his cock brushing against her inner thighs, both of them shuddering and her nipples hardening once more. She feels the head dance eagerly at her slit and she lifts her leg to wrap around his waist. He doesn’t think much of it. He locks his jaw and stares into her emboldened eyes and knows with absolute certainty that she needs this as much as he does, so he guides his cock inside her gently at first. She he knows it’s right when her lips part and her nails dig into his skin.  
It’s messy. It’s forget your name until the next morning messy. Sex hangovers and explicit thoughts in inappropriate situations messy. It’s sex smells and sweat beads messy. But it’s turn-the-world-on-it’s-axis wonderful. And as he thrusts in and out of her like it’s the only thing he’ll do for the rest of his life, he forgets they hate each other.  
Bellamy does something he’s never done before by sneaking a finger inside her with his cock, pinching her clit again and her knees buckle beneath her and he snorts. He takes that as a sign to help her out, so he lifts her off the ground and rests her against the tree once more and she wraps the other leg around him as well. Gravity works in their favour as he holds her because it demands her closer to the ground and she falls more easily on his cock.  
Being inside of Clarke is easily one of the best things he’s ever experienced in his life. The only thing that compares is seeing Octavia’s smile when she set foot on the ground for the first time. He was so happy for her in that moment.  
In this moment, he’s selfish. He’s selfish, because he’s falling to pieces with the woman who undermines him at every turn. A woman who challenges his self-appointed authority and incites conflict back at camp. He’s selfish, because he’d be perfectly okay with running away with her right now and never looking back for the others - his sister included. It isn’t rational, this he knows. He’d never leave Octavia for anything, it doesn’t matter who Clarke is or how good she feels wrapped around him in so many senses of the word. It doesn’t matter if he were literally drowning in the oceans of her eyes or the thunderstorms of her kisses.  
It doesn’t matter.  
It doesn’t.  
But then he’s brought back to reality, and the reality is that right here, right now, he’s about to come inside Clarke, and she’s begging him to, and he wants her to give it up for him as much as he wants to give it up to her.  
“Oh, god,” she squeals breathlessly. She clings to him like a life vest, like she’s the one drowning. He keeps rubbing circles on her clit and pumping inside of her. He can hear the bark scratching her back and snapping off under the friction. He can taste her tongue between his lips and she tastes like fire and ice and galaxies.  
He slows the rhythm down long enough to readjust his grip, and then he’s speeding up, bucking his hips quicker than even he knew he could. He withdraws his fingers from inside her and takes her face with the same hand. He nearly unravels completely when he watches her take his wet thumb in her mouth without breaking eye contact.  
This fucking woman.  
“I’m about to… to,” she warns uselessly.  
“Good,” he answers immediately. “Come for me, Princess.”  
So she does. She yells in surprise, nails digging hard enough to break skin and he hopes she did, and her body threatens to go limp from the upheaval, but not before Bellamy comes undone, too. It’s easily the most earth-shattering and otherworldly orgasm he’s ever had, and he wonders if she knows without him telling her. They stand there, gasping for breaths and failing miserably. He feels his cock softening inside of her and her body reverberating from the physical exertion of holding herself upright.  
He doesn’t know when to let her go. Truth be told, he doesn’t really want to. He buries his face in her neck, riding out the high as far as it will take him, and the forest has never been quieter.  
She awkwardly gets off of him, looking around at her clothes scattered sloppily on the dirt floor. He expects her to yell. To realize what happened and freak on him. But she laughs. A small giggle at first, then a full belly laugh. This is the happiest he’s ever seen her.  
She doesn’t look at him as she gets dressed. And he watches tentatively as he lifts his pants back up and buckles his belt. She finds his shirt and hands it to him, her cheeks read and her hair tattered.  
They know to keep walking to the bunker. That was the whole reason they’d come out here, anyway.  
They’re quiet for maybe three minutes before she peers up at him under her lashes. “I still hate you,” she promises without any of the venom in her voice.  
He huffs and grins. “I hate you, too.”

* * *

They find the bunker in a few hours and exchange next to no words during their trek other than to offer rations.  
He uses his knife to cut the vines away from the doors and when they go inside, it’s nothing like they expected. It’s dirty, dismal, scarce. Cobwebs riddling every corner make it uncomfortable to walk through, and the crates everywhere make it a maze.  
Their flashlights don’t do much for the darkness but they are able to find guns eventually. It isn’t what Clarke had hoped for, he can tell, but he’s relieved to find barrels of rounds and countless semi-automatic weapons with full chambers. Grateful that he has a chance of surviving once he turns his back on camp.  
He wants Clarke to make it back alive, so he offers to show her how to shoot. She’s resistant at first, but he makes a case for it. Tells her that if she wants to protect everyone else she has to be able to protect herself. Even if it means shooting something living.  
She detests it, but she lets him.  
He demonstrates the correct way to hold the rifle in her hands, and as she does it, he steps in a circle around her (but never in front just in case), trying to correct her posture.  
“Like this?” she purses her lips, gun aimed firmly at the target he made on a hanging red blanket and with a piece of loose chalk.  
He tries to reposition her shoulders so she’s hunching less, and when his arms gently tug at hers, he feels that familiar sense of electricity jolt through him. He ducks his head. “Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat. “You’re good.” He pops some of the rations in his mouth. “Just line’r up and shoot when you’re ready.”  
There’s a moment while she takes a deep breath, and Bellamy becomes acutely aware of the bob of her throat when she swallows and the way her hair cascades messily down her back.  
_Boom._  
He gasps, she gasps, and her shot was pretty good for a first-timer. At the very least, it would maim a person. She grins as her eyes widen. “That was incredible!”  
“You’re incredible.”  
She beams up at him and he comes to his senses - the ones that remind him that they hate each other (not that he can remember why, suddenly) - and he shakes his head, trying to distract them both by lining up a shot with his gun and firing. He hits it almost dead centre, which feeds his ego, and she gawks at him, impressed. “Wow, Bellamy. You’re really good.”  
“I was on the Guard for a while,” he answers with a shrug. “Before y’know…” He doesn’t finish but the look on her face tells him that she understands, and she frowns. “Miller’s dad helped me get into the program. Sort of raised me like one of his own after my mom was floated.” He forcefully swallows the anger rising in his voice. He knows somewhere deep down that it wasn’t Clarke’s fault, but he still resents that she was ever part of the Council.  
“Nate’s dad?” she hums. He nods. “David’s a good man. Always has been,” she tells him, dropping her gun to her side as she looks at Bellamy. “Always sees the good in people. I remember my dad once calling him the ‘moral compass’ of the Ark.”  
Bellamy tuts. “Your dad… he was floated, too, wasn’t he?”  
The look on her face makes him retreat but before he can take it back, she sighs sadly. “Yeah. He was floated because my mother told the Council that he was going to warn the Ark about the fact that it was - is - dying. They didn’t want an uproar or a coup.”  
“Your mother killed your father?”  
She nods, then wipes the lone tear that began to fall. “Anyway. Um. I’m sorry about your mom. I remember hearing about it when it happened. I also remember hearing that David fought the hardest for the Council to have leniency on Octavia. They were prepared to float her.” She shakes her head, fury spreading across her cheeks again. “I think that was the first time I realized that the Council was not all it was cracked up to be. But David convinced my parents and my mom convinced Callie. It took days, but eventually they got through to Jaha and he stayed the penalty.”  
“I didn’t know it was him,” he comments, surprised “But I knew he took me in when Octavia was sent to SkyBox. I was really grateful to him and to Miller. He was arrested a year or so back. But his dad never stopped being proud of him. He never stopped visiting and loving him. I wonder if he visited O.”  
“How’d you get on the dropship, anyway?” Clarke wonders, leaning against an adjacent wall.  
“Shumway,” he tells her.  
“He let you on?” she figures.  
“No,” he snorts sardonically. “He never was the type to do stuff for free. He told me Octavia was going to be with the rest of you on the way down. Said that he’d guarantee me a spot on the ship if I took care of some business for him first.”  
“What business?”  
He takes a deep breath and debates telling her. But he figures, since he’s leaving at the end of this trip anyway, he has nothing to lose. “I shot the Chancellor.”  
She literally yells. “You what?! Bellamy! Why did Shumway want you to kill him?”  
"I don’t know,” he shrugs. She hits him suddenly, pushing him into the wall. “I don’t,” he assures her quickly. “I didn’t get to ask questions. I just had to be on the boat with Octavia.”  
She looks at him, horrified. “The Chancellor is dead. That means Kane is in charge up there,” she tells him. “He was the one who kept bringing up a culling… Oh, god, what if Kane’s the one that orchestrated this whole assassination?”  
Bellamy shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Shumway kept saying ‘she’ and ‘her’.”  
Clarke racks her head. “I don’t know.” She watches Bellamy for a minute and he swears he can see wheels turning in her head as she connects whatever dots she’s gathered. “You were gonna run,” she infers. “You brought all the extra rations because you were going to leave us!”  
He becomes visibly uncomfortable by the accusation but nods.  
“Bellamy, how fucking could you?”  
“They’re gonna kill me, Clarke,” he shouts back suddenly, growing impatient. “I can’t stay here. They’re not going to pardon our crimes, and if they do, mine will be the exception. I came down to make sure Octavia was OK, and she hates me. She doesn’t care if I leave. No one needs me, Clarke.”  
“Yes, we do,” she snaps. “Who are you to decide that, Bellamy?” The sounds of their voices echo hollowly across the bunker. “Who the fuck are you? Trying to make a martyr out of yourself? You have people that do need you, whether you like it or not-”  
“Who, Clarke?” he argues angrily, throwing his hands up. “No one needs me-”  
“We need each other-”  
He laughs bitterly. “I specifically remember you saying hours ago that you don’t need me-”  
“It’s not just about me, Bellamy! There are dozens of kids back at camp that look up to you-”  
“Until you go back and tell them all I killed the Chancellor, Clarke! You hate me as much as they’re going to. Just stay out of my fucking life, Princess!”  
That’s the catalyst if there ever were one. She pushes him against the wall with a huff. “It’s not all about you,” she barks. “Stop being so goddamn selfish-”  
It’s his turn to react physically, and he pulls her forward and around to lean her back against the wall, his tongue pushing through her lips to find hers, and her hands against his chest are angry but aren’t fighting him. She grips his shirt in fistfuls and pulls him to her as much as he pulls her to him.  
He lifts her up with his hands under her thighs and sits her on top of a closed barrel, and she’s suddenly half a foot above him. He’s not complaining though, and he pulls the shirt back over her head with ease and without permission. His first order of business is taking big mouthfuls of her breasts both over her bra and with the exposed parts pouring out. She holds his head as if she’s guiding him. He unclasps the bra with one hand while his other is holding her ass on the lid of the barrel and he doesn’t even bother taking it off her completely. He just lets the open fabric hang from her shoulders while he focuses his attention on her breasts and licking every inch of them. He takes special care to leave minor hickeys scattered across them, her nipples a particular point of interest.  
She makes him move back up to kiss her and wraps her legs around him again, trapping him there in her space. He’s surprised to feel her begin grinding against him despite their clothes in between. She’s moaning almost immediately. He doesn’t want to give her an empty release, so he makes quick work of removing all of her clothes on her hips and dropping them to the ground. The way she’s sitting above him gets him lots of leverage to spread her legs. He doesn’t do it gently. He’s hungry - possibly hungrier than she was earlier - and he wants to taste her again. He realizes he didn’t get to after he’d come inside her the first time, and wonders what they taste like together.  
As soon as he gets her legs spread her hands lean back on the rim of the barrel for stability, and he starts rapidly tonguing her sticky thighs in preparation for the main course. Her resolve is already weakened to the point of being putty in his coarse hands. His tongue delves exploratorily inside her, going deeper than even her clit. Her instinctual reaction causes her to close her legs against his head abruptly and it inadvertently pulls him deeper.  
“Bellamy,” she cries softly, begging him. He looks up in time to see one of her hands come up to clasp against her mouth, stifling her moans of pleasure.  
He pulls away from her long enough to stand up, take her hand away and kiss her. He feels her taste every drop of herself on his lips and he smiles. “Don’t,” he tells her roughly and with authority. “Let yourself enjoy this, Princess.”  
Before she can respond, he slips two fingers inside her all the way to his hand and curls them up like a hook, wiggling them purposely and with exceeding aggression. He continues to kiss her and every time she moans against his lips his cock twitches as if he’s forgotten to let it out.  
Bellamy likes making Clarke feel good, he realizes.  
What he doesn’t account for is her shoving him off of her and hopping off the barrel with a small bounce of her tits and fully stripping his pants and briefs off his waist and discarding them like trash around his ankles. He also doesn’t expect her to get on her knees and look up at him with swollen eyes, the blue aflame. She looks up at him as if asking for a present, as if he could give her anything at all that could match how he knows she’s about to make him feel.  
He swallows, nervous and turned on all at once.  
She takes his cock between her lips and guides it to the back of her mouth and as far down her throat as it will allow before she chokes. She slowly pulls it out and repeats the process a few more times and this time Bellamy has to brace himself for balance. She then brings her lips down to the hilt of his cock, teasing him tremendously as she drags her tongue up his shaft painfully slowly, stopping to appreciate every twitch like it’s a magic only she can perform.  
He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, trying to elongate the experience. She laughs around his cock. “Let yourself enjoy this, Bellamy,” she purrs.  
“Clarke, if I enjoy this too much it’ll be over before it starts,” he grits out, overwhelmed.  
She winks. “It’s OK. Come for me.”  
He pants. “Not yet.”  
“Yes, yet. Right now. I want to taste you, too.”  
He can’t help himself and he takes her hair by the fistful the way she did and guides her mouth down his cock until he can’t fit anymore and he holds her there. She starts sucking despite the lack of space and he starts to pulsate. “Damn it, Clarke,” he warns.  
“C’mon,” she gargles around his shaft.  
That does it.  
He comes in her, entirely and absolutely and he can feel as she laps up every drop, god forbid she misses any of it. And he pulls her to her feet instantly and kisses her back, tasting himself on her tongue and his cock twitching involuntarily against her lower abdomen.  
He strides away briskly, taking her by surprise. He strips the red sheet down from the wall with a quick tear and lays it haphazardly on the floor, and before she can ask him what he’s doing he’s pulling her to the ground on top of the sheet.  
He brings her on top of him but smoothly rolls over so she’s on her back leaning almost entirely over her, hardly inches between their bodies, his teeth gently tugging on one of her nipples.  
Clarke bites down on one of her knuckles to negate the noises trying to escape her, but Bellamy is having none of it. He lines up his cock with her slit and rests his forehead against hers, and carefully slides it inside her. Almost all the way at first, but he backs out slowly before doing it again, he repeats this as he works her up, and he breathes in her gasps as if he could keep them for him. He rests his hands on the ground just above her shoulders, bracing himself, keeping himself against her without letting all of his weight smother her.   
He picks up speed as he gains momentum.  
“Fuck,” she moans automatically, like a reflex. Her eyes start to roll about as she endures it. He switches it up and starts to grind against her while he cock is inside and she spreads her legs knowingly, letting him work his magic.  
“Fuck, Clarke,” he groans. His cock had already considerably stiffened up after she’d sucked him off, but now that it was working inside her it was gaining traction and getting ready to come again.  
“Call me Princess,” she begs him, breathily.  
He nearly pauses, taken aback. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “Yes, Princess.”  
She trembles underneath him and he knows when she’s about to cum because he feels her walls start to contract around him and a puddle pool beneath them. She grips his shoulder blades again, grounding herself as he fucks her. “Bellamy,” she whispers. “I’m-“  
“I know. It’s OK,” he promises. “Come for me.”  
She does as she’s told, and feeling her collapse around him helps him finish for a second time, inside her again like he’s meant to.  
When they finish, he rolls over and pulls her on top of him. He’s still inside her as he does and both of them can proactively hear their breaths echoing across the bunker. She rests her head below his chin and he wraps his arms around her naked torso.  
They’ve completely ruined the bunker for anyone else, now, he supposes. They can’t very well go telling people about it. He can’t bring himself to care.  
“Do you still hate me?” he asks after a while of silence.  
She sighs and takes a moment to answer. “Of course not,” she concedes.  
“Would you hate me if I left?” he wonders, kissing the top of her head.  
She stiffens. “Don’t,” she chokes out. “I… I can’t do this alone. I need you Bellamy.”  
“You’re not alone, Clarke-“  
“I am,” she interrupts him. They’re still not looking at one another while they speak. “More alone than I knew. Everyone hates me because of the Council and the only person I thought I had was cheating on his girlfriend and I’m not that person.”  
He doesn’t know how to help her so he instead tells her about himself. “My mother,” he starts, his voice gruff. “If she knew what I’d done, who I am…” He takes a deep breath. “She raised me to be better. To be good.”  
“Bellamy-“ she starts.  
“All I do is hurt people,” he murmurs against her hair. “I’m a monster.”  
Clarke shakes her head against his chest. “You may be a total ass half the time, but I need you, Bellamy. We all need you. None of us would've survived this place if it wasn't for you. You want forgiveness, fine, I'll give it to you. You're forgiven, ok, but you can't run, Bellamy. You have to come back with me. You have to face it.”  
“Like you faced your mom?” He doesn’t mean any harm by what he says, and he tries to say it softly.  
“You're right,” she raises her head to look at him. “I don't want to face my mom. I don't want to face any of it. All I think about every day is who we're gonna keep everyone alive, but we don't have a choice.”  
Bellamy frowns. “They’ll kill me for what I did when they come down.”  
She sighs. “We'll figure something out. I promise.”  
“Can we figure it out later?”  
Clarke puts her head back on his chest. “Whenever you're ready.”

* * *

  
What started a day trip ended up taking a few hours longer, what with trying to carry as many weapons back as they reasonably could, and with stopping to scratch an itch if either of them needed a release.  
By the time they get back to camp, the delinquents gather around expectantly, hushed whispers and bewildered murmurs shared between them.  
Bellamy isn’t sure what’s going on when they return until he hears a few of them panicking because the Grounder they’d caught days prior had escaped their watch. He wants to be mad about it, but he can’t. Not after the day he had.  
“The Grounder’s gone!” Miller yells worriedly, sprinting from the dropship.  
“What if he brings other grounders back?”  
“He’ll kill us all,” someone says.  
Someone else: “or worse.”  
“Let the grounders come,” Bellamy announces strongly, earning head-turns. “We've been afraid of them for far too long, and why? Because of their knives and spears. I don't know about you. I'm tired of being afraid.”  
The delinquents converse excitedly when he and Clarke drop the weapons in front of them.  
“These are weapons, ok, not toys,” she adds. “And we have to be prepared to give them up to the Guard when the dropships come. But until then, they're gonna help keep us safe.”  
The crowd settles in and takes turns checking out the guns and Bellamy can’t help but feel his cheeks redden as he sees Clarke quickly collect the red blanket they used to carry the guns. He bites his lip as he remembers the mess they made of it mere hours before and when she catches his eyes, he knows she thinks the same.  
She heads to her tent and he goes to talk to Octavia. He knows somewhere in his heart that she’s the one who let the Grounder go, but decides it’s a problem for another day. He instead grabs a clean blanket and drapes it over her shoulders before leaning down to press a kiss to her temple and leaving her alone for the night.  
As he’s heading for his tent he’s walking by one he realizes is Clarke’s and can’t help but pause when he hears an angry conversation inside.  
“What the hell was that about, Clarke?” a voice demands.  
“What?” she responds evenly, level.  
“You know what,” the voice hisses. Finn, Bellamy soon figures out. “You’re covered - and I mean covered - in scratches. And... and what the hell are those?” Bellamy waits for an answer, but Finn answers it himself. “Hickeys? Hickeys, Clarke?”  
“Finn, I don’t know-“  
He cuts her off, which pisses Bellamy off, but he clenches his fists and stays still outside her tent. “With Bellamy? Really? He’s dangerous.”  
“I don’t owe you anything, Finn,” she tells him sternly. “What did or didn’t happen today is none of your business. You made that very clear when your girlfriend showed up. Now get out of my tent.”  
“Clarke-“  
Bellamy interjects then, stepping inside the tent and accidentally - but satisfyingly - towering over Finn. “She asked you to go.”  
“Did you hurt her?” Finn tries instead, crossing his arms at him like it means something.  
“Excuse me?” Bellamy laughs, astounded.  
“Explain the scratches deep enough to bruise and bleed on her back, then, asshole.”  
Bellamy turns and notices that Clarke is in her bra, presumably about to change when Finn had come in, and infers that he saw her back when it was turned. “I think you can come up with your own conclusion. But I never hurt her.”  
Finn looks at Clarke, disgust riddling his features. He just scoffs and walks out of the tent, making sure to bump Bellamy’s shoulder on the way out.  
Bellamy rolls his eyes at him as he leaves and turns to Clarke. “You okay?”  
She nods, exasperated. “Yeah.” Her fingertips absently run across her shoulder blades as she feels some of the scars on her back. She doesn’t hide the thoughtful smile as it spreads across her cheeks. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”  
He chuckles. “I don’t think I’d be able to sleep,” tells her honestly.  
She steps toward him, still only in her bra and underwear, and wraps her arms around him. “That’s okay. I’m not that tired.”  
He leans into her and pulls her hips sharply to his and kisses her, earning a giggle.  
Maybe, perhaps, he wasn’t missing anything at all by being born to the Ark and not to the Earth of the history books. Maybe, if he hopes hard enough, things will be okay on the ground, and if Clarke doesn’t hate him, maybe he can learn to not hate him, too.


End file.
